


the gold ring

by RealHidden



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Gen, i think one f bomb|? minor swearsies., late 1880s rowdy feminist theatre ladies, saxe-meiningen company imaginary co-pros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28757271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RealHidden/pseuds/RealHidden
Summary: A little bitty excerpt from a ridiculous, unmanageably-larger piece in progress.Picture it-Paris 1882. The Duke of Saxe-Meiningen's theatre company is in a first of its kind co-pro with a certain Opera company in France. A gesture of solidarity between artistic groups to show that formerly warring nations can give peace a chance. Also, management wants their share of that sweet sweet Duke money. Major disagreements on method and philosophy between company and guest artistes. And obviously, they're doing Faust. Which dovetails pretty neatly with the story of a certain spooky fellow and his beloved soprano.A little scene to introduce the gold wedding ring.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 7
Kudos: 17





	the gold ring

And finally, as he had dreaded all along-the German plague took his Christine.

She must have caught it from the understudies' dress rehearsal that afternoon. Another pragmatic German addition to the schedule, absolutely not how things were done at the Opera.

She must have breathed in the poisoned air as she was was enveloped in Faust's cloak, caught up by Mephistopheles' hand on her arm, their trio under the evil eye of The German Woman. Or from a cup, or a cough across the table, when they all dashed out together to that stupid restaurant they all wouldn't shut up about, for a glass of wine, but just a small one, and a plate of those frites that so obsessed the visiting company members.

By the appointed time of their lesson that evening, the soprano was struck down body and soul with the fever. It was useless.

"Marthe says that they pit us against one another as a means of control 

Marthe says it's infantalizing and a true insult

Marthe says we're working artists, not schoolchildren, nor prostituees

Marthe says the patrons are paying for a ticketed seat at a performance, not for unlimited access to our persons, and they ought to brick over the subscribers' door! 

Marthe says Marthe says,"

Erik rolled his eyes, winced, worried he had actually strained some delicate muscle in his face. He turned his back to the mirror in exasperation, and clapped his hands over his ears. Just one fucking minute's respite from Christine's faithful reading of the gospel of Frau Marthe. 

He didn't last that long. Of course he wanted to spend every second he could looking at her. He turned back to see Christine moving a little closer to the glass, her smile mischievous. God, these _ways_ of hers. The way she would look over each of her own shoulders, even in an empty dressing room, before leaning in to whisper him whatever delicious gossip she had been unable to resist. He leaned in towards her. Their breath fogged the glass on each side.

"Marthe says she wears a wedding ring to the theatre for her own convenience. There is no Monsieur Bielstein, you know! Well, there is... but it's her father! It's not a married name; she isn't married at all! She says she learned the trick from a Duchess, who gave her the ring as a gift. You ought to see it, it's so beautiful! All the Saxe-Meiningen ladies wear them, when they tour. To keep the men from being too forward. And to 'be seen as a colleague and not a conquest'. She says it's a terribly useful little tool, and... perhaps, I should have one, as well. "

"Should you?" He put his fingertips to the mirror, imagined flesh instead of glass under his touch, the curve of her cheek leaning into his palm.

Christine twisted a lock of hair around her finger and stepped closer, her nose almost touching the glass.

Quiet, everything always became so quiet in these moments. She had to feel it too, didn't she? The world narrowing to just them. She could most likely hear his heart pounding. as surely as if he put his hands on her shoulders, drew her close against him where they stood, ran a gentle hand up under her hair to her neck, to coax her head against his chest. A world so quiet and so perfect and real, if not for that pane of glass.

She looked up. "I honestly don't know. What do you think, mon Ange?"

"Would- would you like to have one?" 

"An imaginary husband?" She twisted the curl tighter and released it. She smiled, that way she sometimes did when considering a pleasant memory or a thought-provoking question. That appealing little parting of her lips, lightly scraping her thumbnail across her own mouth. He had thought he would become immune to that look, but it knocked the wind out of him every time.

She looked down at her hands and blushed, stepped back from her own reflection just a little. "I should feel very strange going in to a jeweler's and buying a wedding ring for myself," she laughed softly.

"Ah. You would prefer to have it given to you?"

She went silent again, her blush deepening, and put her palm up flat on the glass, her hand over his. "Is there a goldsmith's in heaven? Would you go down on one knee and ask for my hand? Perhaps I could finally see you! Of course I'm only teasing," she added quickly, stepping back, her handprint turning into a ghost and fading away.

He took a deep breath. _Steady_. _Say what an angel would say,_ "It is a symbol of devotion made manifest," he began slowly. "And you have been most devoted. To your music, to your tutelege. Faithful to our-- our partnership. Is that not deserving of some small, earthly reward?"

__________

He didn't steal it.

He bought it for her.

He'd exchanged it for money, which made it a purchase. 

Was the definition of a word changed by the hour of the day, or night, or by the presence or absence of staff in an establishment? 

Erik closed the door behind him, and knelt down on the pavement. He carefully pushed in the pin and pick, began to gently roll and tease the tumblers back into place, just so; to lock everything back up tight. A challenge, admittedly, after so many years. And practioneurs of this art mainly focused on unlocking. 

He sat back on his heels, glanced over his shoulder to make sure the street was still empty. He carefully bent the pick against the stone wall- a hair's breadth further, to a better angle- and went back to work. 

Of course a jeweller would have the best locks. It was worth doing things properly. 

As a customer, who had made a purchase, it wouldn't do to let any actual thieves come along after him.

To find an unlocked door, 

Take jewels they had no intention of giving to their future wife. 

Take the generous sum he had left in the shopkeeper's ledger,

in exchange for the little gold ring

tucked in his pocket,

against his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> So can I just say, the Duke of Saxe-Meiningen's company did some cool ass shit! Four hundred dudes in real chain mail wandering around the background for the Henrys? Cool. Touring England and... I think Belgium? Cool. Also, I suspect the Duchess had more jobs than she is officially credited with having. Also I suspect that as with most things in history, there were a lot of uncredited women directors etc. all over Europe at the time. The bigger piece surrounding this piece tries to deal with that in my hammy-handed not-super-knowledgeable way. It's my 'I wish Christine had some real friends' fic. Critique and corrections from wiser people always welcome. Stay safe and as ok as possible, everyone!


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